


Quam Odiosis Vobis

by Spaghettiforpapy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Assertive harry potter, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Cults, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Harry Potter Swears, Harry Potter is So Done, Harry Potter is the Heir to the House of Black, Human Trafficking, I have to change the tags because of all the fucking blood lmfao, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Parseltongue, Swearing, The attraction may become mutual but idk, Time Travel, Warnings May Change, harry is female and shes going to go against status quo because fuck that, rituals!!, uhmmmm what else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-10-17 11:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettiforpapy/pseuds/Spaghettiforpapy
Summary: Harry, because her full name is stupid and she refuses to acknowledge it, finds herself in 1942. With more classes available to her, more work to be done to get professors off of her back, and more pressure under her for masquerading as a muggleborn, she finds herself despising the "good old days".Oh, and Tom Riddle is there too- but she couldn't care less.





	1. Prickly

**Author's Note:**

> I w a n t to make him w o r k for her approval 
> 
> Okay lmao that sounds mean but tbh the only outstanding things about him on the surface is that he's a good student and that he's hot, and the only real reason anyone outside of the Knights of Walburgis liked him is because he's charismatic and hot. Fem Harry, probably because she's severely traumatised after being betrayed by hot!tom in second year and offered up to a huge basilisk by him, and also after being tortured and plagued by misfortune because of Voldy's rivalry with a baby, won't really be affected by Tom's charisma or innate hotness. 
> 
> She also won't care about his grades, proficiency in magic, connections, or his power. Mostly because she's faced off the adult version of him multiple times- she just downgraded in enemies by going back in time. 
> 
> ALSO i really want to write out a strong female character in such a xenophobic environment as the 1940s, so that's why it's fem harry and not male harry. Either way it would have been a one sided for now tomarry sooooo....
> 
> Any feedback would be appreciated, I love sharing ideas ^-^
> 
> When I look at my work on the iPad instead of on my phone it looks way shorter even though it’s like 7k + words,,, oof

She was barely stirring in and out of consciousness, and the only thing that Harrisia Lily Potter could think was that she hoped they didn’t put her full name on her grave. It was so pretentious- Harrisia. Why couldn’t her parents name her just Harry?

The harrisia isn't exactly well known plant. It’s sort of just… there. A genus of night blooming cacti with twenty some species under its name. There was one thing that never changed with each species- white, fragrant flowers that bloom at night were apparent in each cactus.

It was interesting how the cactus resembled her in life- assuming that she’s dying. Prickly, something that will hurt you if you prod it in the wrong way. Yet at night, away from the eyes from everyone else, it blooms, not exactly changing its exterior but really just adding to it, revealing its hidden nature. Harri- Harry truly bloomed at night- then, she would have the castle to herself. Just her, her invisibility cloak, and, later on, the Room of Requirement.

And it wasn’t as if her precautions ended there. Silencing charms, disillusionment and Notice-Me-Not charms, biting her tongue and gulping down her excitement, because her little hobby wasn’t socially acceptable. It was taboo. It was illegal- dark.

It was blood magic. Dangerous, forbidden, but oh so intoxicating blood magic.

Harry didn’t really have an end goal in practicing blood magic. To be honest, the only reason she did do it was out of her own perverse fascination in the magic. In the emotions and feelings that racked her body, in the calming cold of peace that washes over her and stills her mind. It’s an addiction. A foolish one, an irresponsible hobby that only increased once her Fifth year began and she spent more of her free time in the Room. The Room was mostly occupied by the DA later on, and it really did make her steam for a bit. Annoyance curled in her stomach every time she was unable to take part in her little dangerous game, to risk her magic at any accident that may occur.

Some more late night visits increased, and the annoyance decreased to next-to-nothing.

Umbridge had been more ruthless lately. The detentions were longer- her blood stained the desk for hours on end, seeping into the wood and leaving a faint, red stain in it. She could faintly smell copper every time she returned for more the next night, and she could almost feel the tortured emotions that she felt each session infect the air around the classroom.

Harry didn’t think there was any more blood to take when the quill eventually scratched through bone and tendons, marking the wood underneath her hand. Under the words I must not tell lies on her hand, the words that she can now see the desk through- which can’t possibly be healthy, she numbly thought, what if she got an infection?- another line showed up, and the dry quill she had been absent-mindedly scratching against the paper once more had red following it.

What a shame. Harry only felt apathy, even though the possibility of it all ending because there wouldn’t be any more blood to take slipped through her hands as if slicked by the very liquid she bled. Her fingers languidly tapped against the desk, the pain now pushed to the back of her mind. As green eyes glanced up to take a peek at the toad of a woman’s expression, it was clear it looked like a pained, nervous twitch.

Whatever. Everything was sort of… whatever, now, after she succumbed to her addiction for blood magic. Even now, her eyes were greedily tracing the path that her crimson fluids made from the desk, slithering across the surface like a liquid snake as it slipped over the side and dripped and dripped and dripped and splattered against the stone floor. She could see were the dust that covered the stone ended and the dark stains that were previous circles of liquid that washed the dirt away began.

The stain on the desk was actually never removed, but Harry didn’t find herself caring anymore. She just showed up to the Room of Requirement more often to block out the pain- betrayal, from people who put their faith and pressure on her before ripping it away and instead placing other titles on her, deeming her insane and soft headed. She would barely sleep anymore- barely show up in her dorm when there’s a much more appealing ritual awaiting her in the Come and Go Room.

“Oh, what a mess you made, Miss Potter!” Her teacher looked like a toad, but when she laughed she squealed and snorted like a pig. The steel gray curls could have been mistaken for solid iron were it not for their weightlessness on her head, bouncing easily due to how thin they were, her tiny, cruel eyes sparkling maliciously between wrinkles and crow's feet. Her thin, wispy eyebrows raised a bit, and her eyes squinted a bit in pleasure, face flushing from excitement at seeing the younger female so broken. She was a sick, sick woman. Harry might have retched if she had the ability to care. “Hum, let me see…”

Her hands were tiny, but thick at the same time in proportion to her body. Her fingers were like little sausages, barely suffocating as the blood flow from the rest of her body was cut off by gaudy, sparkling diamond rings. None of them were engagement or wedding rings, Harry observed. Good. She wouldn’t wish Umbridge on anyone.

Her wounded hand was slowly picked up, and a thumb was pressed into the fresh, newer line of words that bled under the first one. Apparently she wasn’t numb enough- as disconnecting from reality as she was, she couldn’t stop a tiny hiss of pain from escaping her mouth, about as quiet as the release of air from a slightly inflated balloon, and the corners Umbridge’s mouth quirked up to either side of her face, wrinkles stretched almost cartoonish-like around her smile. It was like looking at an exaggerated caricature of the typically Disney antagonist- old, cruel, with a manic grin slapped on their face.

“My my, this is new!” Umbridge crowed, her eyes taking in the still leaking scrawl against her hand. I must not tell lies. “Well, what do you think, Miss Potter? Have you learned your lesson? Or perhaps we should double the punishment to let it sink a little deeper?”

Harry took one look at Umbridge, and even behind the drowsy, seductive veil of indifference, despite the lack of spirit that should have been in her, a little flicker of a flame alighted in her chest. Terror wracked her body as she knew she was about to say something stupid- something that will ruin her facade of passivity.

“The only thing I’ve learned is how little you take care of yourself. Is your nose so fat that you can’t even see your own teeth in the mirror, or is keeping them yellow a new trend with your little ministry friends?”

She watched in detached amusement as Umbridge’s face turned into a violent shade of puce, reminding her of a blood-sucking flea so filled to the brim that it might pop. In that moment, Umbridge resembled Vernon Dursley quite a bit- from the startling shade of her face to the levels that her voice rose in screaming at Harry.

She gained another week of detentions that day, but, somehow, Harry believed that it was worth it. The layer of uncaring apathy that she carried with her had broken- lying in fragmented pieces, unable to be fixed as the little fire in her chest seemed to roar louder and louder with the tension in her body.

She stopped using blood rituals as a sedative that night.

—

The Come and Go Room was lit dramatically, candles being the only source of light for the entire area. Harry kneeled over the geometric shapes she was tracing on the ground, her fingers going over the same line multiple times. She traced the concoction of her own blood mixed with crushed plums and pomegranate- immortality and death represented in two fruits- in three circles. One small circle with a circumference of about 30 centimeters, one larger circle around it with a circumference of a meter and a half (152 centimeters), and another slightly larger circle with a circumference of about 1.8 meters (182 centimeters). The distance from the edge of the second circle to the first circle was 60 centimeters (a little more than half a meter), and the distance from the third circle to the second circle was 15 centimeters.

Harry dipped her finger in the mixture again, before drawing out a series of unbroken celtic knots and curves in the middle of the smallest circle. Her eyes flickered from the pages of an open tome and back to the flat surface she was drawing on, lifting her finger carefully to avoid smudging the work about twenty or so minutes later.

The Eternity Knot was the first thing she drew in the series of circles, completely filling up the innermost one. In the middle of the second circle, directly surrounding the first one, she drew the trinity symbol. Bloods of three, yet unable to escape from unchanging, everlasting cycle that was history. She slowly drew the double spiral in one of the three spaces left in the trinity, returning back to the blood and then to the floor to draw in the other two spaces. The ohm, eternity and the universe, and the symbol for Earth.

She moved to the small space between the third circle and the second circle, and began drawing several lines separating more sections in it, dividing it up for more symbols. Harry reached over and flipped to another page, her stomach doing flips and turns as she pressed her pointer finger, stained red as rust with blood, into one of the spaces. Why was she doing this? Did she really desire this… idealistic future, this figment of reality that came to her in a dream several weeks ago, to sacrifice her life’s blood for this?

“Kaunan.” Ulcer. Pain. Mortality. Accept your intuition.

Was this worth the risk? Was it really?

“Naudhiz.” Need. Desire. Yearning. Accept the unchangeable.

Her chest burned, heart thumping against her rib cage as if it wanted to escape, escape and hop far, far away from the perversion of magic she was committing.

“Eihwaz.” Yew. Stability. Strength. Accept the change.

She can’t blame it.

Harry’s eyes closed, and she gently edge away from the circle. Just one more thing left to add, and her fingers twitched in the direction of the mortar and pestle beside her, the old things found as she searched further and deeper into Slytherin’s Chamber, finding the dead man’s study.

God, this was so stupid. Or was it Gods? She didn’t know anymore- her emotions were shifting to and fro, barely holding onto the mask of indifference she had haphazardly pieced back together to commit this atrocity.

Harry should never have meddled in blood magic in the first place, but, really, it was too late to go back. Air left her lungs as she reached over for the bowl- holding clumps of Ron and Hermione’s hair that she had torn from each of her friend’s brushes. In the back of her mind, she considered adding a few others to the mix- Dumbledore, maybe. Ginny and Neville, she barely knew enough to put in. Luna, she also didn’t know enough. Perhaps Fred and George? Although she doubted the boys needed it. They were slippery as Slytherins, and twice as cunning as one.

Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip, wetting the pink, but dry, skin with the muscle. Harry slid the mortar over, glancing back at the dusty tome. “Blood Magicks: The Beauty in Rituals” was a thick and old book, bound in leather and parchment so thin and frail that she had thought the pages would have crumbled with even the most feather light touches. Of course it was silly to think so- with the pressure of the leather cover already pressing in on the precious pages, and the fact that there was most likely a preservative spell cast on the book to keep it from crumbling and rotting away, she probably could have thrown the thing around for all she cared and still use it minutes later with no troubles.

It still would have felt bad to disrespect the book, however. Harry could feel magic, thick and smokey, congealed like a blanket around the tome. She could almost sense the magic perk up every time she reached for it, close her eyes as it practically purred every time she brushed her fingers against it. It was strong magic, magic she couldn’t dream of replicating due to the centuries that it must have taken for all the excess magic in a few meters’ radius around the book to surround it and become condensed and compact in such a way.

This time, as she touched the book once more, she noted that it was practically vibrating with excitement under her touch. As if it got more and more riled up with every minute, with every second passed in her progression of the circle. As if it could sense what she was doing, see it with its own invisible eyes- watching her hungrily, like it was approving what she was doing. She tsked under her breath, but didn’t expect anything less from such a dark book. Of course, it would love to see her do such a terrible act.

“Calm down,” Harry whispered, brushing short, wild strands of black hair from her eyes as the jittery book practically jumped into her hands. She sat back on her knees, placing the animated object on her legs. Her linen robes billowed around her arms, wearing only spare leggings that belonged to Hermione and a loose, old t-shirt of Dudley’s under the garment. It acted like sort of a smock, with old blood stains that she had failed in removing the old fashioned way- ones that had pressured her into reluctantly searching up cleaning charms in the library. Hermione found her deep into a book about femininity and spells to clean up stains from menstrual cycles once. It was bloody mortifying to have the studious girl gift her muggle books on biology and sexual education.

Harry shuddered at the thought of it, her stoic face flinching for just a second as she remembered the embarrassing memory. The book shivered with her, and a smile crossed her face for half a second. It was nice having something that could relate and understand her on such a deep level.

Harry shook her head a bit, shifting her shoulders as she brushed more hair from her face, trying to tuck them behind her ears despite the fact that they were about as gravity defying as Medusa’s snakes, barely reaching the nape of her neck before immediately curling upwards into spikes. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, hollowing both of them out as she tapped her fingers against the page with uncertainty.

The book shuddered with agitation, and she sighed.

“Yeah- I know. I can’t chicken out now- just… let me think for a sec,” she quietly pleaded, reaching over for the mortar once more, bringing herself back to reality. The curly, brown hairs mingled with red, and she plopped it onto the space in front of her knees. She reached over for the long, curved dagger. The firm hilt was bound with black leather, the blade reaching halfway up her forearm. It had no real special qualities to it as far as she knew- she found it tucked away in Grimmauld Place, no surprise to her, tucked away with a shrunken head or two and a few broken off marble pieces from an old altar. Her eyes had immediately latched onto the dagger, and she quickly nicked it for herself.

The book vibrated as she brought the blade to press against her hand, holding her palm over the stone bowl with her friends’ hair inside it. Harry closed her eyes.

“For their lives, I give up my life,” she said, quietly, dragging the dagger across her skin. One eye fluttered open to watch the thin red line appear behind its path, tracking the few lines of blood flow from the wound and into the bowl, ignoring the sting of pain and how horrible the air felt against the cut.

Harry moved the blade down to her wrist, and spoke once more: “For their futures, I give up my future.” She swiftly moved the dagger in a horizontal direction along one of her veins, crimson blood dripping from the transverse cut and into the bowl. She dipper her arm downwards, closing the distance from the source of blood to the mortar and pestle.

Harry closed her eyes once more, and took three deep breaths as her arm stung painfully. It wasn’t the worst feeling in the world- just last year she had been writhing with excruciating pain under the Dark Lord’s wand. Even so, it was severely uncomfortable to have such wide slits exposed to the cold air around her, along with the warmth that ran scarlet paths down her arm. The smokey air that seemed to perpetually surround the tome below her was drawn into her nostrils and out, her teeth biting down and making small indents in her lips.

She moved the dagger lower, to the middle of her forearm just above her elbow to draw new blood. Her eyes were lidded, lashes tickling the skin of her cheeks as she made yet another transverse cut on her arm.

“For their prosperity together,” because, really, they were bound to wind up together sooner or later,” I give up my own prosperity here.”

The blood splattered against the small pool that formed in the base of the bowl, and she traced the path downwards with her eyes. She licked her bottom lip slowly, soothing the bite mark on her mouth. The book shook on her lap, and Harry glared down at it. She pushed more strands of hair away from her face, blood smearing across her forehead from the wound on her hand, and she quickly reached over for something else- a cactus. A small one- prickly, green, easy to pick up and place in the bowl. She gripped the towel around it, gripping the small, bulbous plant with the fabric separating the soft pads of her fingers and the painful prickles that littered the cactus’ surface.

Harry dropped the cactus into the bowl. Its hard, protective exterior was immediately stained red with the blood, the sticky hair immediately latching onto the prickles. Harry quickly set the towel away, picking up the pestle to crush the plant into small, juicy pieces.

The book shook more, hopping and bumping into her arms, and she scowled. “Calm down! You’re going to make me tip the bowl over- do you really want me to mess this up?” She hissed at the not-so-innocent tome, the book on Blood Magic quickly calming and settling in her lap. It vibrated the same way a cat may purr, as if it had done nothing wrong. Harry huffed. “You can’t wait until I ruin my life, huh? Stop acting so innocent. Merlin, you’re bloody annoying.” The book vibrated violently, making her hiss in surprise as she accidently knocked yourself. “Fucking hell! Shit. You keep on contradicting yourself by making me cock-up this thing, yanno? You want me to get this sorted or not?”

The book didn’t respond, and she scoffed.

She returned to her task, moving the pestle up and down in a slow, agonizingly slow, movement. Clumps of hair mixed with the sticky juice of the cactus clung onto the pestle as if it were trying to drag the club-shaped tool, only leaving carmine stains on the stone as it slid downwards every time the tool was lifted upwards.

Harry distantly thought about what Ron and Hermione would think. She thought- more like fantasized, really- that they would be grateful. They wouldn’t be ashamed or disgusted. Hermione would have hugged her- would have told her how strong Harry was, how proud she was of the other girl. Ron would have said something dumb- something like “You’re gonna bleed yourself dry if you keep on doing this, you know”- and Hermione would stick up for her, and the three of them would laugh, and then they would go on with the both of their lives and let Harry move on from her own life and-

Harry held the pestle with a knuckle tight grip, her arm shaking a bit as she bit down on her tongue. She’s not supposed to be this naive anymore. She knew what they would actually say. “Oh, Harry, you don’t need to do this! You’re going to hurt yourself! You’re killing yourself, Harry, please!” “Blimey, Harry, you turned Dark or something? Blood Magic? Harry, that’s dangerous magic! You can’t keep on doing this!”

It’s too late to think about what they would say. Stop it. Stop it.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” she whispered to herself, her stoic expression falling just the teensiest bit as her lashes dropped. The book moved slowly, purring to distract her. Green eyes looked over the cover once more, and her lips pressed together. “Yeah, I know. Gotta think about other things. Think about the task at hand. I can’t be distracted now, damnit.”

She lifted the pestle, dropping it at her side, before dipping her finger into the mixture. The strands of hair came out in clumps, and she mixed her hair around it as if she was collecting spaghetti. Harry shuffled backwards, before tracing the mixture along the outermost circle. The hair was pulled out in clumps, bits of the crushed cactus barely visible under all the crimson liquid.

The air was filled with the stench of copper, the metallic scent invading her senses. She closed her eyes once more at the smell, taking in the soothing scent. It was like incense to her- filling her senses and bringing her down to Earth, barely opening her eyes and using her pointer finger to trace the bloody strands of hair around the entirety of the circle.

She pushed the bowl away, and took in a breath. Her wand was tucked in her waistband, the wood pressed against her hip tight enough to leave a mark. Her hair was damp from sweat, an insane lion’s mane from the humid air in the room. The book shook slowly on her lap, she bowed her head over the circle.

“I give myself up for their futures. I give myself up for their lives. I give myself up for their prosperity together. I give myself up for Fate to decide what to do with me. I give myself up, unknowing of what may happen to me. I give myself, my future, my life, and my prosperity to thee, Deciders of my Fate, to steer my path through time as you may wish.”

The candles went out. Or was that her vision going black, from the sheer influx of magic that erupted in the room? From the pressure in the air, pressing on her back? From the squeezing, the burning, the pain that rivaled even Voldemort’s Crucio last year?

She knew that giving her life up for her friends was stupid, but she also knew that she was going to be dead in a few years anyways. With the way her life was going, it would be a surprise that she was going to reach twenty. It was only a matter of when.

The pressure in her skull was finally too much, and she felt as if she was breaking up into pieces. The only thing she could comprehend was how badly she didn’t want the name Harrisia to be on her grave- why couldn’t her parents pick out a less ridiculous one?

—

“Fuck.”

Harry felt like a truck ran over her, and then a dragon jumped up and down on top of her mangled body a few more times just to make sure she was in absolute pain. Her back crackled like a dry rice cake that was just thrown at a wall and then smashed with a sledgehammer, and she could feel her bones creaking as she sat up slowly.

The first thing she noticed was that she was alive. As in- not dead even though the ritual was supposed to kill her as she was meant to be a sacrifice for her friends. The linen robes that draped over her body was missing, she drowsily observed, and her hand reached up to run fingers through her hair.

The second thing she noticed was that she was on a bed. One of the beds in the Hospital Wing- with bandages running up her left arm and her baggy t-shirt hanging over her small body. Her eyes snapped open immediately as she took in her surroundings.

Oh, Gods. Did they find out? Did- oh, Dumbledore, he’s- what is he going to do? One of the DA members must have walked in on her or something- they must have bust their way into the Room- that must be it! She’s going to be in so much trouble. She’s probably going to be sent to Azkaban, isn’t she? Umbridge, that cow, she’s probably keeping Harry here to taunt her later before she’s locked up.

Harry immediately swung her legs over the side of the bed, panic welling up in the pit of her stomach and blooming outwards into her chest. Her bare feet made contact with a cold, stone floor- which was strange, given that the Hospital Wing’s floor was covered with glossy wooden panels, which was then covered with rugs around the base of every bed- and a shiver racked up her body, through her spine. Her fingers gripped the sheets around her as she stood up in a blur of speed, attempting to make several strides forward before her legs gave out under her and she toppled to the floor.

“Oof!” The air left her lungs in one fell swoop, the fall doing nothing to her aching pains. Her ribs throbbed as she greedily sucked in air, wrapping arms around her chest and quickly scrambling up- before falling once more, as her legs crumbled beneath her as if they were brittle sticks.

Footsteps made their way into the vast room, quickening with every step that got closer to her. “You silly girl!” An unfamiliar voice cried out, and the familiar force of magic pulled her upwards and gently dropping her onto the bed. Harry groaned in pain, and a wrinkly, but slim, hand pressed against her forehead. “Oh, you’re burning up. Drink this- open your mouth, you foolish girl, do you wish to be plagued by a fever for the rest of the week?”

The woman’s voice was sharp, but held an undertone of concern as Harry drank the potion that tasted like everything bitter and plain was mashed together into an unholy concoction that paid homage to disgusting cough syrups everywhere. Harry didn’t choke, however, happy to just be drinking anything at all. Her throat was dry, and every time she took a breath she wheezed in pain. The bittersweet potion was liquid, and liquid was good.

Her head was tilted back to shake out every last drop into her mouth, before pulling away. She returned to breathing once more, perhaps too fast as she started a coughing fit that racked her injured body horribly. The witch in front of her, who was definitely not Madam Pomfrey, watched her impassively.

Harry rubbed her throat, fingers pressing into her own trachea to feel the swelling and the burn that erupted under the pressure, and green eyes looked up at the witch under dark lashes. The witch seemed to be about as old was Madam Pomfrey, her stark white hair- most likely stress induced- also tucked under that strange white cap that most matrons had… for some reason. Harry never bothered to learn about the history behind the standard clothes of matrons, but her fingers still twitched with uncertainty at the strange environment around her.

“Wh… who are you?” Her voice was hoarse, glancing around the Hospital Wing- and it should be the Hospital Wing, although the white, polished walls were gone and replaced with just more stone. It was as if all the items in the Hospital Wing was just shoved into an elongated classroom, nothing else about the room being distinctive from any other one in the school.

The woman looked over her with narrowed yet haggard hazel eyes, somehow both concerned and questioning- not unlike Madam Pomfrey, on most days- in her gaze. She tilted her head up, setting the empty bottle down on the side table. “If you promise to stay in bed and not strain yourself again, you may call me Madam Comptonia. And if you are especially good, I may let you call me May.”

Harry’s brows furrowed a bit. Comptonia? She hadn’t heard of anyone named Comptonia before. Not in the Hogwarts staff, obviously, and not among the gossip of new staff members that may or may not come around in the year. Her mind was fuzzy, but the ritual that she had done was the only thing that had occurred before she woke up. Her blood ran cold as she remembered the purpose of the ritual.

I give myself up for Fate to decide what to do with me.

“What…” she coughed a bit, licking her dry lips. The skin was cracked, stinging from the sudden wetness. “What’s the date?” When am I?

Comptonia raised a thin brow, but her eyes softened. “We hadn’t thought how deeply you were affected…” she paused. Harry squinted her eyes, even more confused. What was going on? What did they think happen to her? “September 5th, 1942. Just a few years after the Hogwarts term started- you wouldn’t happen to know what Hogwarts is, do you?”

“Uhm,” Harry said, dumbly. Her eyes widened to an almost painful extent, the muscles under her brows straining from how high they rose. She must have looked stupid, because Comptonia gave her a sympathetic once over.

“I see. I will leave you to your thoughts- I’m not quite the right person to break the news to you, dear,” the matron said, quickly collecting herself and snatching the empty flask from the desktop beside her, moving away quickly.

Harry just sat there, open mouthed. 1942? Did the ritual really have that severe of an affect? Fuck, now what?

All her friends were gone, and she knew no one in this time. No one except… Dumbledore, maybe. But Dumbledore didn’t know her- she was a stranger to everyone.

She racked her mind about everything she knew about the 1940s in Hogwarts. Dumbledore wasn’t Headmaster yet, he was just a transfiguration teacher, right? And wasn’t Moaning Myrtle killed in the 1940s- 1943 specifically? By…

Her stomach dropped, seeming to spin and spin in dizzying spirals as the air was squeezed out of her lungs.

“Tom Riddle. Bollocks.”

She was panting now, hyperventilating- hands reaching up to grip at either arm, scratching down the skin to harm herself- to steel herself, bring herself down to Earth.

But, Goddamn, bloody Baby Voldemort was attending school right now. He was in this very same school as her right now, right at this second. He was making his merry way down the halls, happily planning out his future career as a Dark Lord and a murderer, probably harassing First Years and charming professors and no one knows that they’re attending the same school as one of the most dangerous Dark Lords of the century.

He probably didn’t kill anyone yet, but he will. Little teenage Voldemort is about to kill an innocent girl next year, and then move onto killing hundreds. Thousands? The exact fatality count of the war wasn’t known, but missing persons were factored into it.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, before her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip and chewed it up, tasting blood in her mouth. The copper calmed her down, better than any sweet she had ever had in her life, better than sugar quills or fizzing whizbees, and she chewed at the skin harder, harder, to get that metallic taste to stay on her tongue.

The soothing taste filled her senses, and she closed her eyes. “So Tommy is attending Hogwarts,” she said, slowly. Quietly. “That’s fine. This is fine. We’ll probably never interact. He probably won’t even look in my direction. I’m stuck in the 1940s, and everyone is most likely ridiculously xenophobic and sexist and my life will most likely suck, but that’s fine.”

Her fingers reached upwards, tugging at the skin on her cheeks and eyelids before rubbing on her temples, to no avail. Her head throbbed, and the realization of her situation only made it all the more worse. This… makes everything more complicated. To go back to her time, or to wait it all out? Will the ritual kill her?

She glanced down at the bandages wrapped around her left arm, from the crook of her elbow all the way down to the palm of her hand, not even a sliver of skin was shown. Impulsively, perhaps because of the thinned veil of panic that had settled over mind, Harry dug her fingers under the bandages wrapped around the area under her elbow, gripping them and ripping them downwards, off of her forearm.

Harry stopped, suddenly, dropping the bandages as they danced like ribbons in the wind as they fell to the floor. Her irises seemed to be a pure green as her pupils shrunk to a minuscule size in shock and- maybe- horror. Was it horror? Was this what she felt in response to her body being unknowingly modified in such a way?

Her fingertips, calloused and riddled with tiny scars after days upon days of wrangling Petunia’s vicious, thorny roses with no gloves available, trailed down her forearm to her palm, tracing the first cut. She moved her fingers back, watching it zig zag upwards to the second cut, and then to the third, before trailing off into a fine line. A mockery of her scar lay upon the length of her arm, raised and inflamed and eye catching and- oh- those bandages made sense now.

The door opened, and Harry’s hand instinctively gripped her wounded arm to her chest, the inside of it pressed to her body and the scars on the back of her hand completely open and free to everyone to see. A short old man, perhaps one you could describe as being squat or wizened, hobbled in. His hair lay in shocks of white down to his shoulders, a small cap perched on his head as he walked up to her bed. A sense of familiarity uncomfortably rose up inside her- where did she see him before?

Moving her eyes away from the grim familiar-but-not-quite face, she glanced at the man that had followed the first one in. After spotting him, her brows rose to disappear under her messy bangs.

Headmaster Dumbledore.

Or- not really Headmaster. Not yet. Even so, she couldn’t help the feeling of hope rising up in here- and the shame, as well. The shame for participating in such Dark rituals, the shame for taking advantage of Dumbledore’s lack of attention to sneak out and do as she wished at night with no regrets, shame for sitting in front of this past version of him as if she did nothing wrong.

She swallowed, the rock that formed in the back of her throat sliding down and dropping into her stomach with a sickening plop. The soon-to-be-headmaster looked at Harry with his inquisitive blue eyes. It was jarring to see the sparkling joy be replaced with sadness and pity.

Pity. Why pity? Harry’s hand moved over her arm, but she still didn’t understand. Compared to what could have happened to her, that wasn’t even the worst of it.

“Miss,” the stranger’s voice cut through her musings, and her eyes snapped over to him. “My name is Armando Dippet. I’m the Headmaster of this school.”

He talked slowly. Gently. Like a nurse treating a patient with an addled brain, and Harry’s brows furrowed in annoyance. “You’re the Headmaster of Hogwarts, then? The school that I’ve been… taken to?”

Dippet brightened, clearly not expecting her linguistic skills to be well. “Indeed. I didn’t expect you to catch on so…” at a disapproving glance from Dumbledore, he quickly changed his patronizing tone,” I- er- apologize. Ahem. What I meant was that you have been delirious for the past week or so. It’s a pleasant surprise to see that you’ve been recovering so well!”

“Right,” Harry said, quietly. She was still frowning, crossing her legs underneath her slowly. She’s been unconscious for a week? What do they think is going on with her?

She must have been spacing out, because Dipper cut into her thoughts with a "Are you feeling alright there, Miss?"

She looked him dead in the eye, slowly, and blurted out," I feel like shit." That startled the man, leaving him aghast at such brash language coming from a young lady… or whatever men think these days. Dumbledore looked amused, his shoulders relaxing at her blunt attitude. Harry, too, began to relax, and spoke up again. “What’s wrong? I mean- like- what happened to me?”

“Well,” Dippet started off, hesitating. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, trying to put them into words. “It’s no surprise that you may not remember everything. The Grooms are very efficient, actually, in covering up their tracks.”

Dumbledore cut in, his tone gentle in comparison to Dippet’s painfully polarizing blunt or outright patronizing one. “We have many reasons to believe that you have been confined by a cult for years,” he started off slowly. “You had been found in Hogsmeade by a… bar owner. He kindly handed you off to our care, as we were the closest establishment that could provide such. And what our matron, Madam Comptonia as you may know, had observed brought some disturbing insight into what may have happened to you."

"I don't understand. Neither of you are making sense- a cult?" She asked, tone flat. Mentally, she was panicking. Should she just go along with the story? Who the hell were the Grooms? She's never even heard of them in History of Magic- then again, Binns was a pretty shite teacher to be honest. "The Grooms? Who calls themselves that?" That was even worse than the Death Eaters. Are wizards just shit at naming things? Like, Hogwarts. Pig Pimple. Literally.

Dumbledore only smiled at her scrutiny. “It would be unwise of you to underestimate them due to their unfortunate name choice. They call themselves the Grooms mostly because of their irrational obsession with purity in new wive-“

“That’s hardly even scratching the surface of their obsessive, insane focus on virginal women!” Dipper cut in, huffing. He seemed to be getting all hot and bothered with the subject, and not in the good way. “I’m sorry, Miss, for being so blunt, but the Grooms are a cult dedicated to the idea that, should the union be between a wife and a husband, the wife would be necessary to be “pure” or else their marriage wouldn’t be valid in the name of magic.”

“So they kidnapped me because I’m a virgin, then?” Harry asked, confused. “I’m not even near the age to marry, though. I still don’t understand these blokes- they’re just kidnapping girls because a woman isn’t supposed to have sex before marrying a man?”

“They are trafficking teens, dubbed “Brides of Purity”, back and forth until they’re old enough to marry off to men,” Dumbledore said calmly as Dippet reddened in embarrassment at his own rant. “I apologize that we weren’t as straightforward before. But I do believe that’s all, yes? You are no longer a Bride, and I am sure you do not want to be disturbed by your past, am I wrong?” The last sentence was pointed at Dippet warningly, making the elder man close his mouth abashedly.

Dipper twiddled his thumbs a bit. “Yes, yes. You’re quite right, Albus,” he turned to Harry. “Ah- but we haven’t even asked you your name, did we? Can you remember?”

“No, no it’s fine. I remember,” Harry blinked at them both, still stunned by the sudden influx of information, but was able to speak. Shit, she can’t be a random Potter out of nowhere, could she? “‘M Harry. Harry Dursley.” Because there was no way she was telling anyone her full name was Harrisia. Seriously.

“Har… ry?” Dippet questioned, blankly. Dumbledore gave him another warning glance, and Dippet quickly fixed himself up. “I- I mean! It’s a pleasure to know your name, Miss Dursley.”

“Shouldn’t we also tell Miss Dursley that she’ll be residing in Hogwarts, too? While attending it?” As the conversation continued, it seemed more and more that Dumbledore was a sort of keeper for Dippet. Harry supposed that was just one of the many duties of a Deputy Headmaster.

Harry watched in belated amusement as Dumbledore leaned in and said some other things under his breath, making the other man collect himself and straighten up. Was it the shock or trauma making her so calm?

“Yes! Right!” Dippet clasped his hands together. “Miss Dursley, we’re happy to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts as of… oh, the last hour? But now that we have your name, we could put you officially on the record.”

“And you’ll be putting me in Fifth Year, right?” She said, quickly. Dippet blinked at her, and she explained. “I don’t remember much about my life, but I do know a lot of OWL-level information. Not enough to complete them, but I’m also old enough to get in…”

She trailed off, nervously shuffling a bit in her hospital bed.

“Well. That certainly simplifies things,” Dippet brightened, probably more about the less paperwork he would have to handle rather than the fact that, to him, she was gaining more memories. Dumbledore most likely noticed, as he seemed reserved at the man next to him.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard about Hogwarts somewhere in your memories?” Dumbledore cut in, pointing out the development- albeit a bit wary. “It is a little strange, how you could remember your name, remember magic, and remember the years of our schools… but not your personal memories.”

Harry tensed, throat constricting on itself as sweat trickled down her back. She chewed on her lip. “It’s a bit weird, yeah, but uhm… magic, y’know?” She half sputtered-half spat out, but with no venom.

Dumbledore’s eyes softened a bit at her tense, nervous face, her uncertain demeanor, and the remaining confusion and fear in her eyes from earlier. Dippet, not seeing this, looked back and forth between them with even more confusion. The old Headmaster turned to Harry, giving her a smile. “Ah, there’s no reason to be worried,” Dippet said, a bit carelessly,” it’s most likely a spell used to remove memories of your personal life, nothing about information on the outside world in there. Leave it to our May to fix it- why, we should be getting you Sorted soon!”

“And supplies, Dippet. She also needs school supplies. You know, the ones that you were _supposed to place an order for_ before we came to visit Miss Dursley,” Dumbledore lowered his voice at the last sentence, making Dippet shift.

“We only had an hour to get documents for her in order. You were also a bit excited to visit a new student, Albus, weren’t you?” Dippet smiled at the Transfiguration Professor, who seemed to age a few years at the layer of exhaustion that fell over his bright, twinkling facade.

Is… is this how it was with every Headmaster? Harry could certainly see the resemblance between them and how Dumbledore interacted with McGonagall in the future. It was terrifyingly uncanny.

“Uhm,” Harry interrupted, faintly. “Excuse me. When will I be starting? At Hogwarts, I mean.”

“In a week or so, my dear gir-“

“Why, tomorrow, of course!” Dippet cut in.

Him and Dumbledore looked at eachother, Dumbledore’s face finally flat and Dippet’s sheepish. “Headmaster,” Dumbledore said, slowly. “You surely can’t expect the young lady in our care to start right after being in a week long coma. We don’t have her supplies-”

“Owl order works surprisingly fast under certain circumstances, Albus.”

“- nor do we have a uniform that’s her size-”

“Well, a simple shrinking charm can fix that one, Albus.”

“- and, most of all, Miss Dursley should be resting instead of straining herself mentally and magically,” Dumbledore said, disapprovingly. “It would not do for her to harm herself right after waking.”

Harry’s eyes flitted between the two, going back and forth with the same ferocity as a ball being swatted to and fro in a tennis match. Morgana, they won’t start fighting right off the bat, right? Harry didn’t know if she could handle a tussle between the usually kind and now snappy Dumbledore and the old, senile Dippet. Anxiety and awkwardness clashed unattractively in her, and she bit down on her bruised lip, cutting into it with her teeth again. The metallic taste of blood entered her mouth once more, pooling under her tongue, and the savory copper eased her nerves by the minutest amount.

“Actually,” she interrupted once more, embarrassed at the behalf of the two of them. The men stopped passive-aggressively arguing, turning towards her. “I would like to start as soon as possible. As in, tomorrow. I really want to take my mind off of this, and I feel like…” Going back to the Room of Requirement. Looking in the LIbrary. Avoiding Tom Riddle. Trying to figure out what exactly the ritual did. “... pursuing education would suffice. After all, learning is important, right? Ahah. Hah.”

She coughed into her fist, more as a nervous tick than anything serious, and tugged at the edge of her shirt. Dumbledore’s face dropped, put off by her insistence. Dippet seemed triumphant.

“Well of course! Albus, we’ll do what we can to give her peace of mind, won’t we?” Dippet turned his head to face the professor.

Dumbledore sighed, closing his eyes for around ten seconds before opening them and smiling slowly. Gently. Like the Albus Dumbledore she knew in the 1990s. She clenched her fists into her shirt.

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “Of course we will. I agree- the Hospital Wing is not the right environment for her to heal mentally.”

Harry smiled slowly, unsure. Fuck, she knew he was faking it, but she’ll take any form of reassurance she can. Even if it left uncertainty in her mind and unease in her gut, even if it stained some of the more nicer memories she had of Headmaster Dumbledore due to Transfiguration Professor Dumbledore.

Speaking of education, actually…

“There’s one more thing I want to know,” Harry spoke up. She can’t be too specific, or else they’ll be suspicious of her. “I felt like I had something on me before I woke up. Did you find anything with me?”

“Oh! Do you mean the robes you had on? The linen ones?” Dippet frowned, and he was half right- even though that wasn’t the thing she was exactly talking about right now, she still wondered where they were. “They were standard uniform for Brides, I’m afraid. And they were absolutely saturated in your blood- we were required to hand them over to the Aurora, given that they were the regular attire for Brides in the process of being transported.”

“... ah,” Harry said, surprised. Seriously? Was her luck that bad that she wore robes that belonged to humans that were trafficked way back in ye old 1940s by mistake? “But it’s not that. It’s something else. I don’t know exactly what…”

Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to shine with a bit of recognition as he spoke up, remembering something. “Do you mean the book that was found with you?” He asked, easing when Harry looked at him in surprise. “It was completely blank. A very old journal- but we didn’t throw it away, as we assumed that it was something personal to you.” It was clear that “we” was “I”, and Dumbledore probably had no resistance in stopping the journal from being discarded.

Harry barely processed the words about it being blank until Dumbledore pulled it out of his robes- seriously? He had that with him the whole time?- and handed it to her. Harry gripped it, her fingernails digging into its leather binding. The cover was blank, a dark, dark brown saved for gold decal. No title. Nothing.

She flipped open the pages, and… she didn’t know what she expected. Every page was blank, as if the ink was wiped right off of the pages. Yellowed, maybe. Dusty, definitely. But it was completely unblemished and unmarked, which was…

“Oh,” Harry said, quietly, as markings seemed to flicker into reality on the pages before dissipating as Dumbledore turned his gaze from her and onto the book itself.


	2. Mulberry Silk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I was worried that I was making Harry seem too bitchy, but then I realized that in the entirety of the fifth book Harry had been a twitchy, angry, douche-y mess, so it fits lol. Harry’s not right away going to be making Tom cower, nor is she right away going to think about it. She’s still both sort of scared of Voldemort and amused at Babymort so we’ll have to wait until the situation escalates
> 
> I’ve been having so much author’s block, so I decided to split this chapter and continue it in the third one :) i have like ten new fanfics I want to right and like four others I wanna update (‘specially clickity clackity goes the gold, I like how the next chapter is going rn) sooooooo

“What I’m saying is that, hypothetically- and not literally, Black, don’t look at me like that-“ Avery prattled off, his ankle hooked over his knee as he almost fell off his place on the bench from how far back he was leaning. “- hypothetically, if Grindelwald stormed the school, we couldn’t do a damn thing about it, so shut your bloody mouth.”

“See, you’re saying this despite the fact that Grindelwald wouldn’t even try to be seen by Dumbledore,” Black- not Orion Black, but Alphard Black, who was a sixth year- bit back, glaring down at the younger male. “We may dislike the man, but we can’t disregard his-“

“Alphard. Chad.”

Tom was at the end of his rope. Only a handful of days passed after his fifth year at the school began, and already he was nearing the edge of his sanity. Of course, he always remained unruffled and poised on the outside- his image was part of the power he held in the school, obviously- but the amount of sleep he was unable to get due to his new position as prefect, coupled with the inane ramblings of his followers- not friends, friendship doesn’t bring you that political influence that you need- was driving him mad. 

He wouldn’t admit this, he wouldn’t admit that the pressure of his new duty was so great that he had to give up on the THIRD DAY of it, but internally he knew that it, plus the meetings and peacemaking and the leading and everything he needed to do to make sure everything doesn’t bloody fall apart, was a little too much for him. He subconsciously knew that he bit off more than he can chew- but he won’t let himself back down now. A few less hours of sleep every night was something he could handle. 

Now back to the main topic at hand…

Tom looked up from his eggs and bacon, from which he still had to hold back piling heaps onto his plate, and patted at his mouth with a napkin. He set it down, daintily, on the place beside his plate, before clasping his hands together and leaning into the two of them. “While I find myself always ever so fascinated with your debates,” he said, and he knew that he may have put a little too much venom into the words but really he didn’t care,” I do think you’re both smart enough to, ahem, not _scream out your opinions in the middle of the Great Hall_. You may not be children anymore, boys, but I’m beginning to doubt that.”

Chad Avery (and Tom had to hold back a very undignified chuckle at the name ever since he was a first year) immediately froze up, looking like a deer at the end of a huntsman’s rifle. His back, which had been leaning dangerously close to the floor, stopped in its waving downwards. He immediately pulled himself up, hiding his burning face as well as he could as Gaston Lestrange snorted into his pumpkin juice. 

“Yes, Tom, sorry to disappoint, Tom,” he rushed out, words merging together in a hushed babble of fear and reverence as he lowered his voice. 

Alphard Black, however, was (not that he would admit it) annoyingly resilient to his intimidations. Not truly being a part of his Knights- really, he only came to the meetings twice before bailing out on it in favor of cooping himself up in the library with the Ravenclaws- he didn’t feel the same sort of fear-mixed-with-unadulterated-awe as the others do. Well, he did feel a little intimidated, of course. All the Slytherins do. He just hasn’t seen the real… extent of Tom’s ability to love him like the rest of the Knights do. 

But that’s okay. Tom only really needs that beginning of fear that blooms in people’s hearts whenever they see him. As Machiavelli wisely says, it is better for a prince to be feared than loved. 

Moving on, Alphard really only flinched a little at Tom’s venomous tone, but he dared to make eye contact with him. “Yeah. You’ve got a point there, Riddle.”

And not “Tom”. Only the Knights can call him “Tom”, to make them feel like there’s some semblance of friendship there, when there’s really not. 

Tom put on a smile, angelic as most would describe it, and steepled his fingers. “Brilliant. How about you all get back to eating?” He suggested, although it really was more of a command at the surrounding students that had paused momentarily and warily when Tom addressed Chad and Alphard. They couldn’t afford their unflappable reputation to be tarnished by some idiotic incident at breakfast. 

Tom stood, wiping his hands on another napkin before watching his remaining food be Vanished off the plate. His followers looked up at him, questioningly. 

Abraxas tilted his head, mimicking the albino birds that had residence in his home. “Tom? Aren’t you going to finish eating?”

“Afraid not, Abraxas,” Tom let himself sigh, putting on a show of carefully restrained disappointment, just to make them feel like he wanted to stay and sit and eat and speak with them. “I have to head on up to the Hospital Wing. It seems like I’ll be needed another Pepper-Up, can’t be getting bags under my eyes, now, can I? Don’t want to disappoint the girls here.”

His statement was just arrogant enough to get a few chortles from his followers. “Or Madam Bowman,” Orion Black cheekily spoke up, making Tom internally groan at the mention of the lovesick Librarian. Really, the woman was ages older than him. He thought they’d shut up about that by now. 

“On second thought…” Tom let himself scrunch his face up just enough to look mildly disgruntled, making them laugh as he put on a charming smile. “No, no. As much as I’m willing to let Miss Bowman down, I’m afraid my own pride is on the line. You boys know how it is.”

They waved him off as he made his retreat out of the Great Hall and into smaller ones, passing by ogling ladies in portraits and making a swift ascent up the multiple staircases in the castle. 

Really, he should take up sprinting. He could probably be a professional Olympic athlete from how much he has to walk and climb every day. 

He absentmindedly dwelled on his surroundings, reaching the Hospital Wing and pushing the door open to the same old stone room that made up the place. As expected, the entire thing was empty. Save for beds and the little wooden tables that rested at the side of each one, but of course, every single bed was-

Not… empty?

Tom blinked, holding back the urge to rub his eyes as a figure lay back in one. Dark hair, short- probably a male, he presumed- rose in spikes on his head, but all Tom could feel was a bit of surprise coupled with hidden amusement. Really, now? Did someone actually manage to get injured on their first day here?

Out of pure curiosity, he made his way to the sleeping occupant, wanting to take a look at the maybe-a-boy that was reckless enough to get beat up enough that he needed to rest in the Hospital Wing overnight. 

His steps were slow, and despite the usual clicking that loafers made he was always very silent whenever he walked. He approached the unconscious maybe-boy with the same, taut posture of a stalking predator- although, he could never really notice as he wasn’t quite self aware enough about that part of him. 

Tom didn’t expect it to be someone he didn’t even know to reside on the bed, almost recoiling when he poked his head over the bed frame and took a long look at their face. He knew they didn’t attend Hogwarts, because she had the wildest, shortest hair he had ever seen on a woman- young woman, girl, whatever- one that he knew any girl would be caught dead having. 

But here he was, staring down at a girl that mimicked the spikes of a porcupine with her hair, whose face was marred by a long scar that started as a basic lightning shape on the right side of her forehead before cutting down her eyebrow and eyelid and spreading along her cheek and jaw line like an actual lightning strike was taken and painted along her face. Tom leaned forward a little more, moving his eyes slowly downwards, tracing another, thinner scar that started along her shoulder and down to the collar of her shirt, quickly glancing away as he realized she was wearing a loose shirt and maybe a bra- not proper, not proper at all- and turned to look at her hands instead, clasped on top of her sheets and around a book nestled into her stomach. 

Curious. Who was this mystery person? This strange- and his eyes flickered over at her exposed arms, taking in the beginning of scars hidden away from the underside of her forearms being pressed so tightly around the book, observing slightly toned and lithe muscles- and different girl who couldn’t possibly be someone from their student populace?

Perhaps a transfer student? That was the only real answer that seemed reasonable enough to him. Maybe she got a bit knocked around on the way here, perhaps her travel was interfered by some of Grindelwald’s men. The Floo system was constantly being shut off and was always monitored closely. Portkeys were hard to be approved nowadays, and perhaps they needed to take breaks in the midst of Apparating. 

Tom knew he was taking a bit of a stretch, but given a problem, a curiosity, an outlier to the usual (but slightly chaotic) normalcy that surrounded his school, he would find himself intrigued. Maybe borderline obsessed, but that rarely had to do with people. 

And this girl… she was proving to be a future person of interest. 

His brown eyes moved back to the book once more, and Tom couldn’t help reaching out a long fingered hand to touch it. Pull it from her grasp. His fingertips grazed the leather cover, and brushed against the inside of her wrist. 

That was it. His body shivered- twitching- as electricity traveled up his veins and arteries, entered his very marrow and shook him to the bone. It tingled, buzzed, and turned into a fluttery pulse in the base of his stomach. His eyes widened, perhaps a bit embarrassed at the loss of self control. 

She must have felt it too- definitely felt it too- because suddenly his wrist was twisted, pulling him to the side as an iron tight grip, one he wouldn’t expect from such a short girl, held his arm out away from her. 

Brilliant green eyes came into contact with his, and the pulsing electricity still stayed and lingered in his veins, and his body tingled and trembled and was also aching a bit at the strange position his arm was pulled, but his jaw was suddenly blooming with pain and then he realized that she just-

‘Ow.’

—

Harry didn’t expect to be woken up by some creep touching her, alighting her nerves in burning hot electricity too close to being actually painful that made it too reminiscent of the searing pain that rose in her scar when Voldemort had only gave it a feather light touch last year, but she couldn’t help but instinctually raise her hand and pull it into a fist and slam it into the mystery person’s jaw.

There was a hiss and a shock of pain she registered numbly from where her knuckles bruised at the impact, but she could care less about her own injures when her blurry sight locked onto the strange boy standing in front of her. 

She sat up, gripping her book and holding it to her chest with the arm she hit him with, still crushing his wrist with her other. She squinted her eyes, trying to see the blurry boy in front of her clearly, but all she could see was black and blotches of pale skin. 

“You hit me,” the boy said, blankly. As if he couldn’t believe what just happened had just, well, happened. “I’m bruising.”

“Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry, I- wait,“ Harry stopped midway and scowled, and she was mostly scowling at the fact that she recognized that boy’s voice. Even from last seeing him years and years and years ago, she still recognized the cold lull of self-importance in his voice. She remembered the way it echoed off the walls of the Chamber, how it haunted her dreams for the following year with mocking whispers and flashes of red; red like Ginny’s hair, red like blood, red like the eyes of Lord Voldemort’s flat, scaly face on the back of Quirrell’s face like a parasitic leech-

“When I arrived at Hogwarts, I didn’t expect boys to molest me in my sleep,” Harry bit out at him, snapping Tom- Riddle- Voldemort- _Tom_ out of his weird, trance-like state. He had the decency to look at least a bit ashamed, the tips of his ears beginning to pinken, but he still kept a straight face. Impressive- Harry had gotten used to telling off more than enough teenage boys at her age, so used to seeing them cowed after the first few sentences of beratement. Then again, this was a teenage Dark Lord. She should expect more resolve. 

Tom had to tug away from her grip a few times before being able to return his arm to his side, not-so-subtly cradling it with his left hand. He raised his chin, putting on this weird, arrogant look of confidence that really just reminded her of Malfoy posturing himself and puffing himself up whenever she crossed his path during the entirety of Fifth Year. Weird. 

“My apologies,” he said, and internally she groaned because she just realized that people in the 1940s are going to have worse fake-fancy talk than the Purebloods in the 1990s, and Tom is probably going to be the worst offender of the lot,” I only meant to remove your… book. I didn’t mean to disturb your peace- it just seemed like an uncomfortable position to be in. No harm done, but it may have been a bit rude on my part.”

Harry tried to block him out, but he kept on talking. And talking. And TALKING. Did he ever shut the hell up? She tried to distract herself from Tom by scrambling for her glasses and pushing them on, but when she turned her head to look at Tommy she immediately regretted it. 

Yep. She definitely didn’t need to see the monster that haunted her nightmares in full clarity so soon after waking up. Was it weird that she was strangely numb to this? Was it the shock? After seeing Diggory die and Voldemort be resurrected, was this just child’s play for her now?

Whatever. Nevertheless, Tom Riddle was smack-dab in front of her in his fully un-glory, and she didn’t have the energy to fake a smile. She scowled at the handsome boy in front of her, too tired to give a damn about how attractive he was. 

“No,” she drawled out. “Really? Groping a girl in her sleep may have been a bit rude? I wouldn’t have even noticed until you pointed it out.” Harry had to bite down an amused smirk as his ears reddened, watching with amusement as the younger Voldemort attempted to keep his unruffled expression in place. 

When she was 12 she was impressed by his seemingly charming, professional demeanor. Now that she’s the same age as him the awe wore off. A lot. At first glance, he seemed like any other brooding teenage boy she’d find around school, albeit very attractive.

‘A teenage boy that will get his hands dirty and his soul stained with murder in a year,’ she reminded herself, and still was unable to care. 

“I may have… been a bit hasty in my actions,” he said, slowly. “Really, there isn't any need to demonize me like that. I suppose that, as I haven’t seen you at this school before, my curiosity overwhelmed me.”

Harry internally gagged- his bloody dialect was getting really annoying now- and rolled her eyes. “Right. Let’s go along with that,” she said, slowly. “How do you even know if you haven’t seen me here before? It’s not as if you’ll remember everyone who sets foot in Hogwarts?”

“I have excellent memory,” Tom smirked, humbly bragging. He casually leaned against her bedside table, his dark eyes disturbingly human. “And even without it, I’m sure I would remember someone as eye-catching as you, so, therefore, you’re obviously new here.”

“Wow,” She replied, and her voice was probably a bit too dry because her nonchalance may have put Tommy off a bit. “But I mean- really? Complimenting me won’t make me forget about your little slip up earlier, good memory or not.”

He raised his brows, pressing his hand over his own heart. “You think I’m trying to distract you? I’m not some sort of charlatan trying to-“

“Please, for the love of Merlin, never use the word “charlatan” ever again.”

“-gain your favor just to make you forget a “little slip up”. But about the slip up in question… really, would I ever do something as sleazy as that?”

At Harry’s blank look, Tom sighed and rolled his head back, lifting his chin and exposing a jaw line that most girls would feel faint over. Harry paid more attention to his neck, her eyes straying for only a few seconds on his bruised chin before her mind drifted off when they lowered to look at his Adam’s apple, wondering if he knew that he was exposing such a vulnerability to a stranger or if he really just had that much faith in his own abilities. 

“How about this?” He looked over at her, making Harry blink and back up as if she wasn’t just thinking about how quick it would be to lunge over and find someway to take advantage of that little vulnerability he may or may not have mistakenly exposed. “Let’s start from scratch. I am Tom Riddle- and who may you be?”

Suddenly his hand was right in front of her face, long, slim, and unblemished, and she had to restrain herself from lashing out and break his fingers . 

Nothing special. Nothing important. Don’t make him angry- all of which she was contradicting earlier, trying to rile him up and fluster him. Harry bit down on her tongue, and reached out to firmly grasp his hand and shake it, glancing up at him.

“You really are a Peeping Tom, then, huh?” She muttered, and grinned when an exasperated expression came over his face.

“I thought the point of “starting from scratch” was to forget any misdeeds on-“

“Harry. Harry Dursley,” she interrupted him, not keen on hearing him speak any longer. She couldn’t tell if he noticed that her last name was muggle or not- his face didn’t change expressions. “Although, we probably won’t cross paths again. Big school, you know?”

“Ah, I doubt that,” he smirked. She shivered, unsettled at the weirdly playful gleam that entered his eyes. “You see, this is my first year of being a Prefect at this school. Slytherin Prefect, to be exact.”

Harry blinked, unimpressed on the outside while internally she was screaming at herself for forgetting such an important fact. Prefect- PREFECT! Bloody Tom Riddle aka Voldemort aka guy-who-tried-to-kill-and-actually-did-kill-children was a Prefect around this time- she remembered the Diary, remembered the Prefect Badge gleaming on his robes dangerously in the green light of the chamber, and she had to bite down on her tongue once more to keep herself from recoiling. 

After the chamber, she couldn’t even go near Prefects or the Head Boy and Girl anymore- she could barely look Percy in the eye.

“Right,” Harry said, slowly. “I’m sure that,” and she purposefully looked down at his robes and stared long enough for it to look as if she was, for the first time, taking note of the green tie and his shining badge,”Slytherin is very lucky to have you as Prefect, Riddle.”

“Please,” Tom waved a hand nonchalantly, trying to look humble. “Call me Tom.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“But don’t you feel like we have a connection, Harry?”

Harry stared at Tom with a flat, unamused expression, taking in his cheerful smile and blank eyes that seemed to glimmer with _something_ _human_ from time to time. She glanced over to the clock that hung on the wall across her, above the empty bed in front of her. “Personally I feel like you’re going to be late to your classes, Tom,” she felt a smile, smug and small, gracing her lips. “Shouldn’t breakfast have ended about, oh, ten minutes ago?”

Seeing Tom Riddle’s face go from smug and, in her opinion, arrogant to aghast at being late to his class lifted her spirits a little bit. 

—

Watching the teenage version Voldemort practically sprint to the back of the room, grab bottles of _something_ and then drop one on himself (with a smash that made her surprised that Madam Comptonia still hadn’t entered the room yet- where was that woman?) before sprinting out as if the Devil himself was nipping at his heels brought some light into her day, which slowly flickered and went out about thirty minutes later when boredom set in. 

Damnit, why couldn’t she just be left to sleep? It was way better than lolling her head back and lazing in bed, better than dancing her fingers on her book that-

Jumped in her hands and shook violently out of nowhere. 

Harry, startled, sat up to stare down at the journal, having more and more trouble holding it in her lap as it vibrated in indignation. “What?” She exclaimed, recoiling as the book suddenly opened and closed as if it was trying to remind her that, _yes, it was still here, and yes, she could have bothered to open it earlier._

Harry scoffed, scowling. “I was a bit distracted with MiniMort waltzing into my life- a time in my life which was also way earlier than I needed him to, mind you,” she growled, trying to hold the thing down as it only shook more. “I was surprised! Seeing the teenaged version of a man who was going to attempt to murder you in 50 years does that to you- not like you could understand, it’s not as if you have emotions or anything… or empathy. Ruddy little-“

The book went limp, suddenly, and Harry stared. 

“What? Did I hurt your nonexistent feelings?” She lightly teased, still disgruntled at being shaken out of her thoughts so violently. “Come on, it’s all true anyways. S’not as if you can hate me… or anyone, for that matter.”

The book didn’t respond, laying limply. She scoffed. “Seriously? You were getting so worked up at me not paying attention to you earlier, and now that I am you’re acting as if I don’t exist?“

“Am I interrupting something, Miss Dursley?” 

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and Harry spun to face the vaguely amused, crooked nosed face of Dumbledore. He lingered by the doorway, holding a red package sealed with a golden bow. Harry smiled when she realized the box was in Gryffindor colors. 

“It’s nothing,” She said, curling her legs under her as she placed the book onto the table beside her, her smile a bit uncertain as he raised a graying brow. “Really. I’m sort of having a bit of an… internal dilemma, but I’m fine.”

“An internal dilemma? That hardly sounds like something that someone ‘fine’ would have,” Dumbledore said, practically gliding over to her. He didn’t have the same ridiculous robes as he would in the future, she noted. Actually, he was quite stylish in his choice of clothes- his robes were red, of course, but was dark enough not to clash with his slightly graying copper hair. His underclothes were visible, a light brown vest over a cream undershirt paired with black pants. His style alarmingly lacked the outrageousness he usually carried with him in his usual outfits.

“It’s fine compared to my usual mental state as of late,” Harry said, but she also admitted-“ I don’t think I’ve been doing well since I woke up. But I am starting Hogwarts today, right?” 

That strange, insistent twinkle in his eyes seemed to dim a bit as a disapproving expression crossed his face, something almost alien to see with her own eyes, and he set the box on top of her book. “I’m afraid so. I apologize for my lack of enthusiasm- I’m afraid that I can’t find it in myself to not be… unconcerned about your circumstances,” he said, slowly. He smiled warily. “But I can’t let my disapproval get in the way of your experience at Hogwarts. Thanks to Headmaster Dippet, we were able to get a uniform for you early- although I'm afraid that you won’t have any personalized supplies until perhaps… next week.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Harry waved a hand, grinning at him. “Let’s have a look at it, then? See if it matches my standards.”

Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled the box over into his lap. “Overconfidence is a dangerous trait, Miss Dursley,” he said, although the warning came off lightly from all the amusement in his voice. 

“Maybe if what I was saying wasn’t true. I have very high standards, Professor,” she warned him. “The robes have to at least be made from Mulberry silk, or else I won’t even look at them.”

“I’m terribly sad to disappoint, Miss Dursley,” he said, pushing the corners of his lips downwards with great effort, “ your robes are only made from Chinese silk.”

“Despicable,” She playfully bit out, making Dumbledore lose his composure and smile back at her. 

“But I think you can settle for that, no?” He asked, raising a brow. He pushed the box into her hands, the twinkle returning into his eyes with double the power at before. “Open it, I insist.”

Harry grasped the box and placed it into her own lap, blinking owlishly down at it. She reached for the golden ribbon wrapped around the box, and pulled. The box magically opened in front of her eyes, expanding into several different compartments with their own boxes in them. She looked up at Dumbledore with a bit of disbelief, but he only smiled back, waving a hand for her to continue. 

She pulled the first one on the left, revealing a pair of black, low heeled shoes with silver buckles, paired with deep umber gloves beside it- both made of leather, most likely dragonhide. Harry blinked at the high quality, opening her mouth to say something but only ushered onto the next box by Dumbledore. Opening it faced her with two long, silky pairs of robes. Both black, the first one the casual work robes that students so often wore, and the second a winter coat with silver fastenings and trimmed by yellowed fur. Again, she wanted to speak, maybe to thank Dumbledore midway, but she soldiered on. 

The third box made her grimace. While the usual white undershirt, plain sweater vest, and black tie were there, the long, ankle length skirt made her pause. 

Dumbledore noticed that she was staring at the clothes for a while, and leaned in. “Is there a problem?” He asked, raising a single brow. 

“Uhhh,” Harry could only say, dumbly, as she lifted the skirt from its confinement. It was even longer out of the box, only souring her expression more- that would make it hard to move, run, attack… while she could hide more things in it, it would really hinder her movements. She grimaced at the idea of running in it, knowing if she was back down in the Chamber with the Basilisk wearing this skirt she would definitely fall and trip while fleeing from it. “... is a skirt required for all girls?”

“I can’t say,”he said, both brows now raised and touching his hairline- which was a feat in and of itself, given how far back it went. “Girls don’t have pants in their uniform, but never has a boy or girl tried to wear a part of the uniform before either.”

“Well indeed,” she muttered. She glanced up at him, apologetically. “You don’t happen to know if I really have to wear a skirt?”

He shook his head, smiling fondly. ”I’m afraid not,” he said, studying her with a strange, warm expression- one that put her at ease in contrast to Tom’s more inquisitive, colder look. “I will have to ask Headmaster Dippet to check, but I believe you can wear whatever you wish. I would like to let you know that you have any other concerns about the school, you can come straight to my classroom.”

At that she looked up at him, startled. Her green eyes widened in mortification. “There’s really no need, Professor!” She exclaimed, even though she tingled with happiness at her ex-headmaster/still-grandfather-figure caring about her enough to make the offer. “Really, I don’t want to be a bothe-“

“If, at some point, I find the company of a child in need to be a bother, then I have failed to be a teacher,” Dumbledore said, softly. He smiled at her reassuringly. “Go on, open the next box.”

Harry stared open mouthed at him, before closing it with a click. She smiled again, looking at the final box and reaching over to slide the lid off of it. She blinked, lashes fluttering at the folded pair of elbow-length gloves, as black as her robes and shoes and skirt and tie, trimmed at the ends with gold. 

“Speaking about Mulberry silk…” Dumbledore, that sneaky bastard, slyly started.

“You’re kidding me,” she gasped, reaching for the high quality gloves and holding them up, staring with wide eyes at them. 

“Not at all,” he intoned, amused when she held them close to her chest.

“How much-? When- why?!”

“Not as much as I expected it to cost, a couple of days after you arrived in our care- it actually came in yesterday morning- and…” Dumbledore tilted his head, reaching up to run his fingers through his noticeably shorter beard as he glanced a bit at her arms. “I had a feeling that you wouldn’t appreciate the attention otherwise.”

At this, Harry gave him an incredulous expression. “Don’t you think silk gloves would put enough attention on me?”

“You’d be surprised at the fashion choices of our student populace. You might get a few looks, but I think your choice of wearing pants may outway a pair of gloves, Miss Dursley,” Dumbledore said, amused. 

Harry sheepishly looked down at said clothes, a smile twisting its way up her face. “Yeah. I guess you’re right- but why is it so…”

“High quality?” He shrugged at that. “Think of it as a welcoming gift.”

Harry pressed her lips together tightly, running her fingers along the silk. She lowered her head, unable to fight the wave of crippling nostalgia and sadness that ran through her, ducking down. She didn’t know what to think- not that it was silly or stupid, of course, but it was just so… extreme, maybe, to give some new, random student such expensive clothes. Maybe he felt bad for her? Because she was apparently the victim of some random cult or something? Whatever the reason was, it seemed to have been deep enough to make him feel obligated to gift her such a thing.

“Thanks,” she whispered out. “Thank you so much. I… don’t know what to say, really. They’re just so… brilliant.”

“Brilliant?” Dumbledore questioned her choice of words.

“Yeah. Brilliant,” she mumbled, holding them to her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> =)

**Author's Note:**

> How did i get to a human trafficking cult sideplot, you ask? Hell if I know, it just happened. 
> 
> I feel like I need a co author or a beta or smth to help me with dialogue but I'm too lazy to find one. Just comment down what y'all think of my yippity dippity dialogues and I'll fixaroony that boi up
> 
> Some of you may be a bit perturbed at how dumbledore is acting, but no worries- i just feel like the fact that dumbledore was a transifguration teacher/deputy headmaster turned actual headmaster and Minerva McGonagall was a transfiguration teacher/deputy headmistress turned actual headmistress is fascinating tbh. I found it strange how their positions mirrored eachother so exactly so i sort of wanted to mimic the mcgonagall and dumbledore dynamic with dumbledore and Dippet. 
> 
> I’m sort of getting my bearings with harry’s Emotions and stuff, so if she seems a bit sporadic/bipolarish with how her attitude veers this way and that, I apologize! I was focusing on worldbuilding n stuff first before getting into the thick of character interaction, but don’t worry. We’ll be getting some more characters introduced and i’ll Be spreading my boundaries in describing environments and stuff. 
> 
> So we’ll be seeing tommy in the next chapter,,, ohoohoo
> 
> I mostly wanted to right this fic because I ABSOLUTELY LOVE fics where harry goes back to the 1940s and tries to keep his sanity there while also being around babymort and his legion of toddler dark wizards, but i also love the idea of a “modern day woman” going back in time and being unable to adjust with such a sexist environment?? It’s really interesting and fascinating to think about imsorry
> 
> Also don’t worry we will be seeing some more assertive harry, she was meant to be very, VERY angry and won’t take shit from most people around this time of her life.


End file.
